


Camera Obscura

by cellard00rs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cameras, Deduction is a turn on, M/M, Romance, Set Around Series 2, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes up a photography. Sherlock is not pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camera Obscura

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Камера-обскура](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1545302) by [Rishima_Kapur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rishima_Kapur/pseuds/Rishima_Kapur)



> Initially posted under my sheburns1 account - moved under this name to keep everything together.

John was bored.

Which was strange – normally, when there was no case on – it was _Sherlock_ who was bored. It was Sherlock who wandered from room to room, sighing dramatically, wringing his hands, staring at everything contemptuously because it could not hold his attention for more than five minutes.

And yet this time – it was _John_ who did these things.

Sherlock, of all people, was actually well and truly entertained. Enthralled, even. Molly had gifted him with a diseased heart and he was having the time of his life dissecting it, muttering under his breath as he meticulously mapped out each and every exposed vein.

John was almost at the point in his boredom where he was willing to watch Sherlock’s (literally) bloody task. Instead he found himself inspecting various cupboards and wardrobes around the flat and was currently examining some of Sherlock’s coats. Sherlock only ever really wore the one, but he had several others that he had used from time for time in his more elaborate disguises.

He was eyeing a tweed one with elbow pads when he noticed a bundle in the far back corner of the top shelf. He eased it down gently and found it to be a dusty (not to mention rather expensive looking) camera. One he vaguely remembered. He turned it this way and that, mind shifting through various memories, trying to grasp where he knew it from.

At last it came to him – Connie Prince. He winced, remembering her brother, the brother’s murderous lover, and, in particular, that alarmingly furless cat crawling all over him. Yikes. Not a good memory to be sure. The camera had been purchased as nothing short of a prop. Part of their cover as they had investigated Connie’s murder.

…strange, John had thought they, or, more accurately, _he_ had returned it…

He walked out of the closet still holding it and, curiosity replacing boredom, sat on the sofa. The camera had a good weight to it. He held it up, looking through the lens. It was all dark and he realized, rather sheepishly, that the cap was still on. He removed it and looked through again. The world looked sort of…sharper, clearer through the lens, and he found himself getting to his feet.

He shifted his position, just slightly, tilting the camera slightly and fiddled with the buttons on top discovering that he could zoom in and out, modify this, tighten that, the lens adjusting until he soon found he had settled it firmly on, of all things, the skull resting on the mantle.

He pressed the shutter a few times and then lowered the camera, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. No reason not to go and get the film processed. It would give him something to do – he had been bored after all.

 

*

 

The shots came out blurry, dark, fuzzy, or washed out. Even worse, some of them were a mix of all four. And then there were those where his thumb had made an appearance, blocking out the picture entirely. 

Not one of them was worth keeping.

And yet John’s interest in the camera didn’t wane. 

In fact, he tried again, the same day even, because, really, it was at least _something_ to do.

The second round wasn’t much better, save one picture that – if you squinted and turned your head to the side – didn’t look _too_ bad. The skull came out grainy, yes, but there was something about the clarity of the lower mandible that was…interesting. Sort of…artistic.

John had never thought of himself as the artistic type.

That had always been more Harry’s area. It was one of the many excuses for her alcoholism. The ‘tortured artist’ defense. Still, John had to admit it was sort of fun, fiddling with the camera, trying something that was completely outside his area of expertise.

Not that he was completely uncreative.

After all, there was his blog. He certainly didn’t consider himself to be a _bad_ writer and his blog had indeed garnered a healthy following. But that had been something foisted upon him, something taken up only at his therapist’s insistence. 

This was something more…natural. And certainly more fun. Because it was all his own – something he himself had stumbled upon and he found, with each passing picture, that he really enjoyed.

Soon he was purchasing a newer, better camera as well as book after book, trying to learn more about photography, trying to find a way to take a nice, decent shot. One that was clear, crisp, and, hopefully, thumb free. Thinking the skull a cursed subject he moved on to different muses – a lamp, a lone book on the coffee table, a bird in the sky.

The first time he chose to take Sherlock’s picture he had actually brushed up quite considerably.

Most of the pictures he had recently developed were not only free of his thumb, they were actually bordering on being something worth showing others, something worth purchasing a frame for. John was certain that Sherlock, being Sherlock, had taken note of the camera and how it had become something of a constant companion for him in recent weeks but he had not given any voice to his thoughts on the matter – if, in fact, he had any.

John imagined that Sherlock probably found the whole thing asinine.

So John had a camera and was taking pictures – so what? It didn’t affect him one way or the other.

Until, of course, it _did_ , because John took _his_ picture.

 

*

 

John accompanied Sherlock to Bart’s, camera clicking now and again at various things, even Molly, who had blushed and tried to hide behind her hair, which only made her more of an appealing model. 

She had dashed off, leaving the pair of alone in the lab and reluctantly John put his camera to one side, fingers busy with his phone, texting Lestrade on Sherlock’s behalf because, of course, Sherlock was too busy looking through a microscope and talking _to_ text. 

“…blood collected from the scene is heavily contaminated with perfluorinated carboxylic acids. The question comes from whether or not this was due in part to the body being found in the victim’s kitchen or if it has some deeper meaning-” Sherlock’s deep voice drone on but John was not listening anymore, his fingers having stilled on his phone, eyes taking Sherlock in.

The lighting behind him was perfect, highlighting the curve of Sherlock’s throat, magnifying each curl of his hair, and when he pulled back and rubbed at his face, his profile vulnerable and open and absolutely _exquisite_ , John couldn’t help himself. He put aside his phone and picked up his camera, framing the shot and clicking the shutter rapidly.

Sherlock stopped talking, blinked, and looked at him with a scowl, “Did you just-?”

John shrugged, “You looked good.”

The scowl dropped away, replaced with throat clearing as Sherlock’s gaze shifted back to the microscope, “Well…don’t.”

“Don’t?”

“Yes. “

John spoke without thinking, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

“I am quite sure you could.”

John’s eyebrows drew together as a thought occurred to him, lips twitching, “You…you’re not-?”

“Quiet! I am seconds from solving a homicide!”

After that John didn’t get to ask him much more on the subject, his camera and picture taking lost in the whirl of murder solving intrigue. But John’s thoughts did return to the matter once he got his film processed.

While there was still much room for improvement, this latest batch was, by far, his best collection yet. There were lovely shots of the sky and cabs on the street. A nice colourful one of a window box full of yellow flowers and a cheerful one of children dashing about the sidewalks, faces frozen forever in delight. 

And then there was Sherlock’s picture.

It was by no means perfect, but John couldn’t seem to stop gazing at it. His flatmate – his ever imperious, perpetually rude, utterly _brilliant_ flatmate and the world’s only consulting detective looked…human. His face was made of sharp angles but they seemed muted by the light somehow, a sort of soft sadness or exhaustion about him. It was hard to classify which (or maybe it was just a pure mix of the two), but it was there…floating about him.

Frankly, John found it to be his favourite picture taken so far. 

Wanting to save his progress, John had purchased an exorbitant amount of albums to collect and catalogue the products of his hobby and he found himself giving Sherlock’s picture its’ own empty volume.

He started to write Sherlock’s name on the spine but, feeling odd and apprehensive and the slightest bit awkward about the whole thing, he instead wrote ‘Obscure’. He didn’t know why, but it seemed a fitting title. 

He put the volume away and picked up one of his many camera books, this one about understanding exposure. He flipped through it idly; thinking that it was ridiculous to give the man a whole album of his own when, John was quite certain; he would not get another picture of him. 

While not getting to properly ask the question back at Barts, John had the sinking suspicion that Sherlock – of all people – was _actually_ camera shy. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed plausible. John had never, truth be told, seen a picture of Sherlock anywhere. 

Granted, he had not seen any pictures anywhere in the flat period. Sherlock’s decorations about the flat were nothing close to sentimental. Everything had a purpose – books, scientific equipment – the closest thing that came to ornamental was the skull and John was pretty sure even that wasn’t on display out of a sense of fashion….and he hoped it wasn’t out of a sense of sentimentality.

Still, the main point stuck with him, Sherlock, camera shy…

He put aside his book for a moment and looked at the album sitting alongside its brethren. His fingers itched to take hold of it, to look at the picture again, but he pushed the feeling aside, instead returning his attention to his book and choosing to let the issue drop.

After all, he had more important things to keep in mind, like the betterment of his hobby. As a matter of fact…

John put the book aside once more but this time with a much loftier purpose, grabbing his laptop, flipping it open and doing a quick local search to discover that yes, indeed, there was a local school that taught a course in photography. 

He looked at all of his albums and the idea of filling them with refined, professional quality photos caused a wistful smile to take his face. He resolved to see about signing up for the class and returned to his book.

 

*

 

John never took his camera with him on cases or to crime scenes but he managed to get pictures of various yarders at the station nevertheless. Even Lestrade. Though Lestrade seemed even more bashful about it than Sherlock if that was possible. And, sadly, with good reason. No matter how many pictures of him John took and no matter how hard he tried, they just…never came out right.

Lestrade must have sensed it at some point, because he pulled John to one side and cleared his throat, scratching the back of his head as he muttered, “All my pictures coming out like shite, yeah?”

John didn’t even get to speak, Lestrade seeing the answer on his face, “Noticed you stopped taking covert shots of me. Don’t blame you. I always seem to turn out well enough in newsprint articles but any other camera and I look bloody awful. Mum always hated it.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, Sally doesn’t turn out much better.”

“Oh?”

“Mmm, her eyes are always red like she’s possessed. I can take it out in Photoshop, but...” John shrugged, then, chuckling, confided, “You know who is actually really photogenic? Sherlock.”

“Really?”

John nodded, “I’ve managed to sneak in a couple of pictures. He always turns out…” he trailed off, feeling uncomfortable continuing in that vein and instead offered, “Anderson, too.”

“Anderson?”

John nodded again and they both laughed, Lestrade’s eyes landing on Sherlock, who was dashing about the scene, inspecting this and that but not necessarily touching anything that would get him into trouble. Yet.

Lestrade sighed, “Best not tell either of them. We’ve got enough trouble on our hands.”

“Yes,” John breathed, this cut off by a sharp ‘Oi!’ from Lestrade as he dashed over to Sherlock, who had finally touched something he very well shouldn’t. 

This left John (unfortunately) alone with his thoughts which tossed fitfully about Sherlock and, in particular, his photos. His photos which had almost filled the ‘Obscure’ album entirely.

After the first picture, John had thought he would never be able to sneak in another shot of Sherlock, but then he had completely forgotten how oblivious the man could be when it came to certain things. While Sherlock was no doubt brilliant and able to catch and cling to minute details, there were large gaps of things he missed. Oh, there was the usual; social interactions, world events, media coverage, but, apparently, there was also John taking his photo when he wasn’t looking.

John discovered he had only been caught at Barts because he had been so close. If John hadn’t been sitting right next to him, Sherlock would have never known his picture was being taken, because John had certainly taken many more pictures since then, just at farther range. There were pictures of Sherlock lounging on the sofa, Sherlock hunched over experiments in the kitchen, even ones of Sherlock sleeping and those were his most treasured.

Sherlock had been practically comatose at the time. Passed out in the armchair, union jack pillow clutched to him like a teddy bear. John had almost filled an entire roll that night alone. But his favorite, by far, was one of Sherlock looking across the Thames. 

They had gone out to dinner and Sherlock had paused for a moment, just a moment, to look out over the water. The sun had been setting, making the sky ridiculously pretty, and Sherlock had looked…

John couldn’t even describe it. It was indescribable. As was the picture he had managed to produce from it. He had developed it under the tutelage of his photography teacher and even she was mesmerized by it. The class had been extremely helpful – teaching him all about framing better shots, the best equipment to use, developing good pictures, and how to use Photoshop. There had even been instructions on how to balance colour, how to brighten or dull the saturation to translate the mood, the emotion.

And the emotion in that picture…

Christ, the fact it even _had_ emotion...

And it did, it really did, though the emotion again, was indescribable.

His teacher had just looked at the picture and shaken her head, remarking, “It’s breathtaking, John. Absolutely breathtaking. You have such an eye for the camera. And for your subject, your muse.”

“He’s – he’s not my muse.” John had returned sheepishly.

She had waved him off, “Nonsense. The majority of your work has been focused around him. Not that I blame you – tall, thin, the hair, the eyes,” she sighed, “He’s an exquisite model. You can feel how you feel about him through each photograph.

“You can?” John had squeaked. Actually _squeaked_. It had been beyond embarrassing but his teacher didn’t seem to notice or care, instead merely asking, “Does he have a name?”

“I…well, I’ve been putting his collection in an album under ‘Obscure’, but his name is-”

“Oh, no! Don’t tell me! That’s as good a name as any. John, please, you should really consider letting me put your photos on display. I’ve already asked some of the other students. We’re thinking of having an art show.”

“Art…? They’re, um, they’re just photographs, they’re not...”

“They. Are. Art,” she had insisted and, as she had been holding the photo at the time, she practically shoved it in his face, “How can you deny that this is art? Look how beautiful he is!”

John had felt his ears turning pink as he had taken the photo from her, unable to look at it, replying quietly that he would think about it. And now here he was. Thinking about it. The idea of that photo being on display for others to see…

John didn’t know why, but he felt…wary about it. It felt…sort of like an invasion of privacy. Though whether Sherlock’s or his own, he couldn’t quite say. The picture was harmless enough. Sherlock looking across the Thames, brilliant sky in the background a perfect mixture of blue, gold, and orange. 

John resolved to look at the picture again as soon as they got back to the flat. The idea being that maybe if he looked at it again he could make a better decision. What he did not expect was to get back to the flat to find that not only was the photo missing but so was his camera and all his albums.

Only one culprit came to mind

John scowled, "Sherlock..."

John entered Sherlock’s room with some trepidation. He had never actually entered his flat mate’s room before and he would be lying if he said he hadn’t given it some thought. A lot of different ideas had floated through his mind but, for the most part, the prevalent theme in all of them was the idea that the room contained whips and chains and other implements of torture. A right dungeon. John didn’t know exactly _why_ that was the prevalent theme, but that was just what he had always pictured.

What he found instead was a room that looked as if it had been ripped from some posh magazine. Everything was neat and expensive and so utterly straight it was as if the room itself had been pre-packaged and unsealed until he had opened the door. John vaguely wondered if the man ever even used the room it was so flawless. He eased quietly inside, practically tip toeing, though; honestly, there was no real reason to be so quiet. He was quite sure Sherlock was well and truly absorbed in the most recent case they were working on. 

They had only returned to the flat so he could conduct some quick experiment or consult some notes or something, so John highly doubted he was even cognizant of the fact that John was living and breathing and dashing about the flat. When Sherlock was focused on a case he was well and truly focused on it.

Which worked well enough for John as it would give him time to take apart the immaculate room in search of his things. He could just _ask_ Sherlock where the camera was, but John didn’t really want to have that conversation – because he felt, somehow, that there would have to _be_ a conversation.

Granted, he would probably do the majority of the talking but, no, it was better to simply find the camera and albums himself and maybe try to stave off any awkwardness. He searched through the wardrobe (were all of Sherlock’s clothes the same?) and under the bed (how did someone not even have dust bunnies under there?) and finally was kneeling on the floor rooting through the desk when he found it – his camera, his albums and…

John frowned, reaching inside the bottom of the drawer where he had discovered not only his things but also a beaten, mashed up photo. It was of the skull. It was, in fact, one of the first photos John had taken – the one that had really sparked his interest in photography in the first place.

“I see you’ve found your camera.”

John, startled, looked up to see Sherlock in the doorway. Then he frowned, “Well, it _is_ mine.”

“True. But I had hoped taking it from you might diminish your obsession.”

“Obsession?”

“John, you’ve hardly had that contraption away from your side for weeks. It’s unhealthy.”

He laughed at that, almost hysterically, “You’re advising _me_ on something unhealthy?”

Sherlock lifted one shoulder and let it drop easily as he walked into the room, closer to John, who rose to his feet. He set his camera on top of the desk, as well as the albums, and then held up the photo, “How did you get this? I thought I threw it away.”

“You did. I fished it out.”

“Why?”

“Not a good photo, by any means, but the clarity of the skull’s lower jaw is intriguing.”

John let out another laugh, this one dry, “Funny. I thought the same thing first time I saw it.”

“Yet you threw it away,” It wasn’t a question and John didn’t know how to explain why he had binned it in the first place. Instead he looked at Sherlock and felt his throat tighten, though as to why, he had no earthly idea, “The case…”

“Solved it,” Sherlock said simply, “Child’s play, really.”

“Oh,” John said for lack of anything else to say, then, “Did you...?” 

He wanted to ask one question, but asked another instead, “Did you contact Lestrade?”

“Texted him, yes, case closed.”

John asked the question he had initially wanted to ask, “Did you…did you look through the albums?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, instead waving a dismissive hand, “You have your camera, you have your albums, no harm done. But,” this word was said coolly, “I would ask that you perhaps consider respecting my wishes.”

John almost choked on all the words he wanted to say to that only managing a “Wh-?”

“I asked you, politely I should think, not to take pictures of me and not only did you disregard that request, you also put the vast majority of them into an entire _album_. I did take your camera to make you step back and think about how you’ve dedicated an exorbitant amount of time to it, but I confess I also took it in the hopes that you might finally heed my words and stop photographing me.”

“Why do you care so much if I take your picture? Are you camera shy?”

There was a split second of indeterminable emotion that flickered across Sherlock’s face and John pointed at him, highly amused, “You are, aren’t you?”

“I am _not_ shy,” Sherlock insisted, “I have _never_ been shy.”

John leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms, “You should have no reason to be. Camera shy, I mean. All the pictures I’ve taken of you have been…” John tried to think of the proper thing to say here and could only come up with a lame, “…good.”

Sherlock’s face said he didn’t believe him and John’s head tilted to one side, “Did you actually look through your album or did you simply glance at it? Confirm you’re in there and then just-?”

“I didn’t need to look through it. The others were more than entertaining.” Sherlock said firmly and then, much to John’s surprise, raised one of his arms and started unbuttoning his sleeve at the wrist. John stood up straight, arms unfolding, “Um…what are you doing?”

“Undressing. What does it look like?”

“Wh-why are you-?”

Sherlock let out an aggravated groan, “Honestly, John, sometimes I think you _enjoy_ being purposely slow witted! I solved the case, it’s late, and I’m tired. Therefore, I’m changing from my day clothes into my night clothes.”

“You’re tired,” John interrupted, stressing the words because Sherlock was never tired, or rather, never _admitted_ he was tired. More times than not his body simply gave up on him, hence his collapse in the armchair and a thought suddenly dawned on him, “You’re trying to get me to leave so we won’t have to talk about this anymore.”

Sherlock raised his other wrist, unbuttoned the buttons there, tone distant, “You have your things. You can see yourself to the door.”

John thought to do just that. To leave. Seriously he did. Sherlock was right. He had his camera, he had his albums…he should go. Sherlock had given him the perfect chance to leave and close the issue. John could go, resolve to stop taking Sherlock’s picture, and merely think of him as a bloody, unmanageable git. He could refocus his camera elsewhere. 

And he started to leave. Truly, he did. At least in his mind he was getting there. He turned and picked up his camera, held it in his hands, the weight of it comforting and natural. All he had to do now was tuck all the albums under one arm and go.

Instead he turned back around, ever so slightly, and watched as Sherlock started to remove his jacket. It was a slow, casual movement. Muscles in his back and arms moving with relative ease under his thin white shirt and in that moment John absolutely hated himself.

He hated himself and his camera and his class and his love of photography because he was unable to stop himself from seeing the perfect picture in this moment. Sherlock was relaxed and quiet, his face expressionless but his eyes…

John snapped the picture without another thought.

Sherlock turned to him; frozen but for a second, eyes narrowed as he opened his mouth then he shut it. He regarded John silently for a moment and John thought to try and say something but he had nothing to say. No excuse. Sherlock gently folded his jacket and put it to one side. His eyes cast from side to side and then he sighed, voice deep and dark and John shivered at the words, “All right.”

Sherlock’s hands rose to his throat, fingers nimbly working the top button of his shirt loose, his eyes on John’s and then on his camera, “Go on, then…”

John swallowed thickly and blinked, unable to look at him, to think, palms starting to sweat as he managed a jittery, “Wh-wh-what?”

“I’m going as slowly as I can. If you have any directions, feel free to voice them.”

“I’m-I’m not...I…” John couldn’t seem to manage the idea of stringing a sentence together. His camera seemed to be shaking in his grip, fingers trembling. 

Sherlock had one button undone, fingers toying with the collar of his loosening shirt, “Now who’s shy?”

John felt his jaw set as he raised his camera and took another picture. Then another. Sherlock slowly undid each button and John felt as if his voice came from some other plane of existence when he spoke, the sound of it strange to his ears, “Tip your head down just a bit…yeah, like that…”

Sherlock worked through each button but, surprisingly, not mechanically. If anything, he seemed even more relaxed undressing now than when he had started. John could see that through the lens, even as a wild chattering voice in the back of his mind spoke to him about shifting his weight, adjusting the angle, using the light to hone in on Sherlock’s exposed body, noting the contrast of his slackening clothing against it. Pale, white cloth resting languidly against pale, white skin.

John felt words stick in his throat, the idea of that skin growing flushed somehow bounding off of him, but he was unable to speak, instead his own body mirroring the idea of it as he felt himself blush, zoom focused on Sherlock’s fingers as they finished the last button before momentarily rising to his throat.

John’s camera was clicking rapid fire, the sound of the shutter almost deafening to him as Sherlock rolled his shoulders, hands gripping his shirt, “Do you want me to take this off?”

“Oh god yes,” John breathed and he winced at it, cursed himself a fool, shame flooding him quickly as he immediately suspected that Sherlock would not obey but, then, amazingly, he did. Sherlock eased the shirt off his arms slowly, eyes on John the whole time and John heard himself gasp, “Camera! Look…look at the…that’s right, yes; just…look over here a bit…”

Sherlock peeled off the shirt entirely and John didn’t want to pull away from the lens, feeling like it was some sort of shield, a protection from this, whatever this was. And he was sure that, any moment now, this… illusion would fade and reality would return and Sherlock would send him off and…

Sherlock’s hands hovered over his belt and now his skin was starting to colour, pale skin growing rosy as he breathed out, “I can continue.”

John didn’t know what he was saying. He didn’t know what he was saying as he clutched his camera tighter to himself, voice cracking over the word, “Okay.”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, a strange smile curling his lips, “As you wish.”

He undid the belt buckle, uncoiled the leather strap from his body, gently laid it to one side, next to his jacket and his shirt. He undid the first button of his pants, eased down the zipper, the teeth clicking apart from one another almost as loud as the camera clicking off shot after shot.

The camera caught everything, every delicate, smooth motion and John’s thoughts were still a jabbering, erratic mess, thinking that it was highly unfair that Sherlock was capable of undressing gracefully.

His pants were gone, toed off to one side, and Sherlock stood there, goose bumps breaking out on his skin (all his skin, so much bare skin) and for someone so tall and thin he looked remarkably small and vulnerable and he ran a hand through his hair, fingers starting at the nape of his neck, moving upward, ruffling his curls as he whispered, “What now?”

John just breathed out through his nose loudly. Camera still glued to him. Still raised defensively.

Sherlock’s eyes cast on his big, unmade, probably never-even-used bed and his next whisper was smoky, “Do you want me on the bed?”

John rigidly refused to believe he had started panting.

“Shall I…pose for you?”

John moved. Slowly, carefully, he moved, changing his position, camera focusing on the bed and Sherlock followed the unspoken direction, sitting on the bed, his whole body languid as he relaxed once more and all he was wearing now was his underwear of all things and John had never, ever, ever thought he’d be in this position.

Or seeing this. Or doing this. Or…

Sherlock sighed, lying back slowly and John’s camera caught how his pupils were dilated, cheeks and bridge of his nose dusted pink, one arm raised, wrist on his forehead as he rested, head cradled by his pillow and it was like something out of a painting or a Shakespearean novel, that sense of sadness and sex and melancholy. 

It was like John wasn’t even there as Sherlock’s eyes turned to the ceiling, as he swallowed, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing and John kept taking pictures and he was starting to wonder if he hadn’t filled the camera entirely, fingers almost numb from hitting the shutter so repeatedly.

Sherlock’s arms lowered to both his sides then slowly, ever so slowly, rose up, his hands starting at his neck before roaming lower, brushing over his body and John worried that he might actually suffocate as apparently all the air in the room had been sucked out, everything around him hot and dry and heavy – gravity having been increased tenfold.

Sherlock’s palms passed over his nipples, which had turned into hard peaks, before playing along the planes of his stomach, then lower, resting lightly between his legs, his knees barely drawn up, and John exhaled, “G-Good…lo-lower your right knee…so-so I can…yes, thank you… _thank you_.”

The last ‘thank you’ was close to a whimper as John focused in on Sherlock’s hands floating above his obvious erection, the material of his underwear straining to conceal it and his own reply was close to a rich moan, “Do you want me to-?”

“Take them off,” John said quickly, pleadingly, trying not to note how desperate he sounded, how husky his tone was as Sherlock removed his last article of clothing, freeing himself and John felt his camera close to falling from his sweating fingers, as Sherlock looked at him, the look raw and bordering on eager, “John, can I…?”

“Do it,” he rasped, “Touch yourself…”

One of Sherlock’s hands fell over his cock, gripping it, the tip glistening as he stroked it, spreading the precome and it was too much, too much, too much…

John’s camera tumbled to the floor, the sound of it bouncing off the carpet audible, as John rose to his feet, marched over to Sherlock and covered him with his body, their lips meeting savagely. Sherlock let out a sound that could be well classified as a relieved sob as his hands twisted through John’s short hair, carding through it, as his body bucked upwards, over sensitized and wanting and John’s own hands were greedy as they clutched at the man beneath him, dying to cover every inch.

Sherlock was tearing at John’s clothing, words sneaking out between their kisses, “…too many…”

John worked off his shirt and loosened his pants and they were tangling about his legs, but he really didn’t care, he wasn’t focused on himself so much as he was focused on Sherlock and on touching him. All of this time of looking at the man through the lens and through the pictures and in the album seemed to be something of a foretaste for this moment and now, starving for it, he wanted to devour him whole.

In fact, he resolved to do just that, mouth easing downwards, teeth nipping at his hips and his thighs before taking hold of him, and, okay, John was inexperienced but it couldn’t be all that difficult and in the next instant Sherlock was in his mouth, hard and full and John’s tongue swiped along the head, the length, working meticulously as his cheeks hollowed and John was pretty sure he was going to come from the sounds Sherlock was making alone.

But Sherlock pulled him away, dragged him back up, kissed him, his hands finding John’s cock at last, freeing it from John’s pants fully, the cumbersome material finally slouching down to rest about his ankles and then those long, perfect fingers were wrapped around both of them, moving with spectacular determination and Sherlock was speaking once more, breathing into John’s mouth, “Together.”

“Christ…” John managed and knew he was thrusting into the other man’s grip, thrusting against him, wanting more and faster and he got the distinct impression he was saying those very words aloud, along with a resounding chorus of ‘yes’ as he finally came apart, Sherlock not long behind him.

 

*

 

John was a messy, mangled heap on top of Sherlock and he got the sinking suspicion that he may have passed out for a moment after they were done. When he went to speak, his throat was dry, and he licked his lips, swallowing a few times before trying again, “…guess my teacher was right then.”

Sherlock merely made a questioning noise.

“She said you were my…muse.”

“I thought I was ‘obscure’.”

“So you did look through the album.”

“Little bit.”

“And you…you didn’t like-?”

Sherlock sighed, “John, you are, in fact, very talented with the camera. I will not deny that. It is simply that I would prefer not to be the focus of your art.”

“Why?” John asked quietly, raising his head, eyes meeting Sherlock’s and Lord; they had never been so close. Looking in his eyes now, this way, should have been strange for so many reasons but John found, oddly, the chief among them was the fact that he had looked into these very eyes quite often through photographs and his camera lens alone.

Or, more importantly, he had seen _this_ in his eyes through photographs and his camera lens alone. This undertone of emotion. John had thought it to be shyness or sadness, but now, up close he could recognize it for what it was. Muted discontentment. 

Sherlock’s voice was sullen, “Your photos are stunning. Large selections of them are inspiring or wistful or thought-provoking. Sometimes all three and more. You show an understanding for each shot you’ve taken and there seems to be a sense of attachment to each one and I don’t-” his words faltered here and John had the impression it might be because of the look on his own face.

“What?” he snapped and John blinked, “Nothing. Just…bit deep for you, this. You’re usually pants when it comes to talking about this sort of thing, so...”

“I am very articulate.”

“Yeah, but not in this area. I can only assume you had this speech researched and prepped in advance.”

Sherlock avoided his eyes, “Be that as it may-”

“Oh my god,” John couldn’t help himself, _giggling_ , “You prepared a speech about why I shouldn’t take your picture?”

Sherlock barreled on, “-the point remains. There is a significant amount of feeling devoted to each of your photos and I think it only a matter of time until I…disappoint. Considering what has just taken place here, which, I am positive, is going to eventually be viewed as a mistake on your part, I think it best if we keep our barriers in place.”

John blinked, then, laughed again, rubbing at his eyes as he rolled off of Sherlock, “You don’t want the responsibility, is what you’re saying. You’re _scared_.”

“No.”

“So much worse than being shy for you, I’d imagine, being scared.”

“I am not!”

“Oh yes, you are. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. Sherlock, I’m not _asking_ anything of you. I promise. And what happened just now, I notice, you don’t voice as a mistake for yourself. And while I’m not the world’s only consulting detective, even I can deduce what _that_ means.”

Sherlock didn’t answer and John felt the bed dip, Sherlock obviously about to roll away but John was quicker, arms around his middle, holding him, drawing him back, “Oh no. Nuh-uh. Not leaving. Don’t want you to leave.”

“John…”

“Let me just revel in the words I’m about to say, will you? Shut. Up. Stay in the bed. If you leave it, I can’t do the other things I envision doing to you.”

Sherlock seemed to want to speak more but instead let out an annoyed growl and collapsed back into the bed, back into John’s arms and John, beyond amused, unabashedly snuggled him closer as he spoke against his shoulder, kissing it lightly, “Did I imagine us here? No, god no. Do I regret it? Think it a mistake? Also, surprisingly, no. I rather like what we did here and would like very much to continue.”

Sherlock scoffed and John moved his head, kissing his neck now, lips rubbing there, voice thick as he spoke, “I take pictures of you, Sherlock, not because I expect anything from you but because you’re damned photogenic. A bloody great model. That’s all. Honest. Everything else is just…extra. And if you sensed emotions attached to my pictures of you well, bravo. Both you and my teacher beat me to the punch in realizing that I am…you know, fancying you.”

Sherlock couldn’t keep quiet any longer, “Which is a mistake.”

John shrugged once more, “Maybe. But I don’t think so. You’re not all _that_ obscure to me, you know. I have you pretty well pegged.”

“Do you?” This was said with an almost childish sense of sulking. John smiled at the idea of Sherlock standing, arms crossed, pouting gravely, one foot hitting the floor, close to tantrum. He rose up until he could see Sherlock’s eyes again, fingers ruffling his hair, “Yeah. You’re a genius who sidelines as an idiot when it comes to me and to sentiments. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Sherlock snorted, eyes looking away and John leaned down, kissed him once, twice, kissed him until Sherlock changed his position, his body pliant beneath John’s. Their lips meeting again and again, hands ghosting over one another until John drew back and looked down at him, sighing, “You really _are_ beautiful.”

John chuckled as Sherlock avoided his eyes, the pink blush from earlier making a reappearance as he regarded the camera on the floor, “You should let me take a picture of you. There were none in any of the albums.”

John kissed him again, “Think that’s a bit of the point. The photographer is untouchable.”

Sherlock muttered under his breath and managed to ease himself away from John, getting to his feet to quickly picking up the camera and, still muttering, managed to eventually get the lens focused on John, snapping off a picture. He held the device to one side, frowning, “I hope that turns out. Right now you look…you look…”

John sat up a little, one hand patting the bed, beckoning Sherlock back, “I look like someone who’s ready for an encore.”

Sherlock readily returned to the bed.

 

*

 

None of the pictures turned out. 

Apparently the drop, while minor, messed up the majority of the film. Or so, at least, John claimed. Sherlock deduced otherwise, but had no real proof, and, frankly, wasn’t driven to find any, instead having the mental picture of John in his bed to amuse him.

Not that he needed a mental picture, considering the man had taken up permanent residence there, and, in doing so, had actually lured Sherlock into spending far more time in his bedroom than he had ever used to.

John had also acquiesced to the Art Show and Sherlock, reluctantly, finally admitted that he was, indeed, a tad bit camera shy. But that the picture of him viewing the Thames was rather incredible. 

Though nowhere near a match to the later one John had arranged of them together, in the same spot, under almost exactly the same coloured sky, hands held fast.


End file.
